Cedar Sweep Half Algorithm, Half Deity

For @Beau sorry for the wait!

Machiavelli slipped away from the camp, the shadows of Godsmouth receding behind him as he ventured into the cool embrace of the cedar forest. The air was thick with the rich, earthy scent of rotting wood and pine needles, and each breath felt deeply refreshing against the remnants of mineral and stale air that still clung to his lungs from the cave.

Deeper he wandered, the canopy above shifting as sunlight filtered through, casting golden splashes of light across the forest floor. The soft, rhythmic crunch of twigs and dry leaves beneath his paws was a welcome contrast to the tense stillness he had just escaped. Here, even the air seemed lighter, humming with life.

He paused beside a towering cedar, its bark weathered and gnarled. He rested his paw against its rough surface, pale-pink nail tracing the edges of the bark’s deep grooves. Had he been of a more druidic bent, he might have imagined the pulse of life humming through the tree beneath his touch. Alas, he was not, and his thoughts drifted instead to his garden back home. He could only wonder if the flowers had withered or if the herbs needed tending. His mind briefly lingered on Eset, trusting she would care for it in his absence, unaware of the turmoil unfurling in the lowlands.

He knew his time was short. His attendants would soon come searching—he was never far from their watchful eyes, nor from Herod’s looming gaze. But for now, in this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to savor the illusion of freedom, even if it was nothing more than a pleasant lie.

Grace was never something Beau had been known for. He spoke with little thought, often lacked empathy, and it was not common for him to misstep.

Today had been no different, a tumble leaving his pelt filled with pine needles and dirt. Wooded areas were never his area of expertise, and he had been left missing the comfort of the flatlands.

He had come this way to follow Leto, otherwise he never would have bothered - yet now he found that he could only admire her from a distance. She was much too preoccupied to pay him any mind.

Despite circumstances, he still wished to try. He would beg if necessary. That had been his only reason to come this way, for she had once spoken of the various critters that she preferred to snack on and he had intended to find her a gift.

Now he wandered, empty pawed. He knew perfectly well that there was no way of her knowing of his failure, yet he couldn't help but be embarrassed.

The faint crunch of pawsteps in the distance pulled Machiavelli’s attention, round ears twitching as he turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. It didn’t come from the direction of Godsmouth’s camp—curious. A stranger, then.

His paw slipped away from the gnarled bark of the cedar, the rough texture lingering against his skin as he moved unevenly around the massive trunk, his steps lacking their usual flowy grace. The dog's eyes, pale and glinting with an almost detached interest, scanned the shadow-dappled forest ahead. There was a certain boldness in his movements, the kind that came not from confidence, but from a creeping apathy that had settled in recent days and numbed his sense of caution.

A scent of another carried by the wind left him somewhat tense, yet he continued in the direction of the source. This was the way he believed he needed to go - simple as that.

A figure spotted, a man stood alone. He felt a sense of relief at the sight - should things fail to go his way escape would be a simple matter.

"Aye," He called out, lifting his head. "You know the way back towards the Lowlands?" Unsure if he was going in the right direction, he thought that it couldn't hurt to ask.

Beau had no inkling of just how easy a task escape would be. Leaning back against the sturdy trunk, Machiavelli angled his body to keep his injured leg out of sight, the shadows from the branches dappled his fur, softening his silhouette. He seemed utterly at easy, the perfect picture of confident, perhaps even cocky, indifference.

Though secretly his heart sparked within his chest. The lowlands? the dog repeated thoughtfully. I believe they're to the east, over the mountain range and past the desert. He let his head fall against the bark, doe eyes passing over the stranger. Large. Stong.

You're headed that way?

He offered a nod to the strangers question, beginning to step closer. "I've got'ta lady waitin' on me there." That wasn't the whole truth, of course. Leto had no idea he was coming that way.

"I planned on gettin' her a gift, but no luck." He grunted, the disappointment clear on his face. Beau had never had much trouble with women, but Leto was different. He felt the need to impress her.

He would try again tomorrow, he had decided. He saw no reason to approach her until he had something to offer - something more than what they could offer her.

Machiavelli chuckled, a low, knowing sound that reverberated against the trees. A jackdaw called in the distance, its squeaky laugh dismissed with an irritated flick of the dog's muddied ear. Did the stranger hear it too? Or was it only in the dog's head?

Trouble in paradise? The half-breed murmured, half-draped against the rough bark, a wry smile playing on his lips.

And just what sort of gift might that be? he continued, voice laced with idle curiosity. His thoughts drifted, picturing the glimmer of gold veins winding through his den like rivulets of liquid sunlight.

Beau had not expected to carry a conversation, but he wouldn't complain either. It was not often that he got the chance to voice his complaints anymore. It nearly made him miss home.

"Somethin' to eat, I thought. But ain't that dumb? She can hunt for herself." He realized such things now. Leto deserved something more - something special.

Gifts were never his area of expertise. That's why he so rarely gave them out. "I need somethin' she couldn't get on her own. Somethin' pretty." He had considered seashells, but decided the coast was much too far.

Machiavelli cocked his head, an amused smile ghosting over his face. For the lady's favor I presume? His paw, slender, and pale as ivory, tapped a soft, steady rhythm against the bark, each pearl-pink nail catching a glimmer of dappled sunlight.

Perhaps something fashioned by your own hand? The wraith asked, pale eyes flicking back to the stranger, voice low and lilting, like a thread of silk slipping through the air. Or, if you aren’t the artistic sort, perhaps you'd try your paw at mining? A small, half-smile lingered as he shifted his weight, stepping away from the tree with a slow, almost feline grace, each footfall disturbingly soft despite his uneven gait. He slid forward, weaving a wandering path among the towering trunks.

A sudden glint caught his eye—light flashing in the corner of his vision. Machiavelli recoiled, stepping back sharply, spine arched and eyes wide and unblinking. Jumpy. His heart drummed beneath the surface, momentarily overtaken by an electric thrill of fear. But when he turned, it was not The Abbot's glinting teeth that met him, only a falling leaf, catching a stray beam of sunlight, and drifting slowly to the earth like a dancer suspended in air. He stared at it for a beat longer, his expression falling back into that faintly bemused calm, lips parting with a subtle huff before continuing.

I trust, he continued without turning, unbothered by whether or not the stranger decided to follow, that you know what gold is?

Beau watched the slender man carefully. His gait was odd, his behaviour not helping the fact. But he was not one to judge those he took advice from - not verbally, at least.

"Course' I know what gold is. What's she gon' do with some rock though?" He asked with a furrowed brow, trotting after the man. Beau felt that he could give him the answers he needed. "If you was a lady, are you sayin' that's what you would want?"

Maybe he wasn't as skilled in the art of romance as he once thought. What would Leto want to do with gold?

powerplay with permission
Assuming that he's following but if Beau wanted to run away I would not blame him sob
Please let me know if it needs changed! <3

I’d want it now, Machiavelli murmured as he continued his lopsided drifting. Where I come from—the lowlands, as it so happens—rare rocks are prized. They have their uses, you know. Ceremonies, adornment... some even grind them down for paints or cosmetics.

He paused, head tilting in curiosity as he met the stranger's gaze for the first time since parting from the tree. His pale, opalescent eyes lingered, drifting over the stranger’s face with an unsettling slowness, his expression clouded as though it had only just dawned on him that the man might not fully understand his ramblings. Do forgive me. May I have your name? I was rude as not to ask sooner.

If your lady friend cares little for luxury, Machiavelli said, beginning to walk once more, his voice dropping again into low tones as he did so, perhaps it could be traded for something more... practical.

Machiavelli halted at the tree line, leaning against a gnarled branch. His lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in near gasps with breaths that seemed to linger in the cool air like fading wisps of smoke. He was seeking a particular figure—the woman who had spoken up for him at the feast.

Joanna, he called softly, his tone coaxing, beckoning her closer. The faint fog of his breath mingled with his words, curling around him as he waited for her reply. Is The Abbot in? A simple shake of her head was all he needed. With this, a faint, shadowed smile crept over Machiavelli's face. Lovely. Let’s keep this between us, yes? Distract them for just a moment—private business, you understand. My thanks, dear friend.

He watched her slip away, his gaze lingering long after she disappeared. With a slow grin, he inclined his head toward the stranger, beckoning him to follow. This way, then. We'll get your lady friend something she couldn't get on her own. Something pretty. As he led the way down the ravine’s edge, his breath grew shallow, and his steps faltered, each movement a quiet struggle to conceal the growing fatigue that crept over him. By the time they reached the cave, the glint in his eyes had dimmed.

Here we are, my good lad, Machiavelli panted, slipping into the cave's shadowed mouth.

All good with me!

Right - his name. He had nearly forgotten to introduce himself. That would have been incredibly rude, even for him. "Beau." He answered promptly. "You gon' tell me yours, pretty boy?" He would leave him with the nickname, otherwise. A compliment all things considered, though not necessarily to be taken to heart coming from Beau. The man rarely thought before he spoke.

His companion spoke of a trade, and he was unsure of what to take it for. "What sort of trade are we talkin' about?" He raised a left eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

He had no issue following after the man, his curiosity pulling him along. He had observed the wolves of the lowlands to be odd creatures, how could he not? But this was his first time up close with one - it could be his last, as well. He never knew how long it would be before he met another wolf.

A cave. Such things had always been unsettling to him, yet he found reason to push such fears aside and follow.

forgive me for brooding boy hours lol

Name? He had felt certain until he was asked. There were three, weren’t there? Three names for three sides of the same dirty coin.

Hasdrubal.
Machiavelli.
Machi.

Prophet.
Survivor.
Person.

But which to introduce himself as?

Hasdrubal. That was what he was called here. That was what Joanna knew him as, Eira and Juno as well. A title that was more iron chain than gold crown, forged from alters slick with sacrifice and screamed prayers to gods he barely believed in. Hasdrubal, the Prophet, the whelp Herod molded from the sludge and slurry of grief and abandonment into something that could almost be called a pearl.

Almost.

There had been imperfections, hadn't there? No gem is created without flaws, no matter how polished it looks, and the fissures in the halfbreed's iridescent hull had been pumped full of betrayal and hate until he had crumbled—snapped, more like.

And if Hasdrubal was a pearl carefully crafted by Herod, then Machiavelli had been armor, created by the dogs own paws the night of Juno's murder, baptized in the boy's cut skin and spilled lifeblood. Machiavelli was strong, and ruthless. Machiavelli was safe, and alone. Machiavelli, the Survivor—the one who’d clawed his way from the plasma to taste freedom’s bitter edge, even if only briefly.

That left only Machi. The Fellahin—the person. Not a prophet, not a symbol, just…a man. It should have been the simplest name of the three, easy to wear, something he could settle into like a well-loved blanket. Machi was the most comfortable of the garments. The happiest—cut from the warm, soft cloth of Muat-Riya.

His thoughts scattered, dark and thorny. The memory of Muat Riya haunted him—a distant light now, greying at the edges until the bursts of color and light were lost. Was it slipping away because he had failed? Because Safiya… He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth set tight. She’d been so bright, so fierce, and he’d been useless—helpless, broken. Why would anyone come looking now? And if Muat Riya had turned its back on its Fellahin, why would it ever come for The Prophet of Godsmouth?

He swallowed, the effort of thought swirling him into exhaustion. Prophet. Fellahin. Hasdrubal. Machi, running together until they were indistinguishable from one another—a glittering, patchwork coat. He wavered, mind skipping like stones across a lake, the fractured reverberations of Herod's laughter and Juno's sweet voice echoing in his head. He wished they would shut up. Both of them. They were making this more difficult than it needed to be, it was not supposed to be a hard question.

And after what felt like hours but must have only been a few seconds of silence, the dog replied with a shrug of his shoulders, I'm not opposed to being called pretty.

The normal kind I suppose? The piebald man responded, quirking his own brow in response. You give someone something you possess, and they, in turn, give you something of their own? Hides, meats, herbs—those sorts of things.

He paused at the entrance of the cave, pink nose working to ensure The Abbot was truly gone. Satisfied, he ventured deeper, guiding Beau through the dimly lit passageway until they arrived at his chamber, where veins of gold snaked through the rock like delicate spiderwebs, glimmering in the faint light. With a weary sigh, he collapsed into a nest of leaves and pine needles, exhaustion washing over him, limbs trembling and burning with a fervent itch that seemed to claw further than just his skin. Eira would be back soon, wouldn't she? Surely she wouldn't abandon him as well, not with Herod still alive, anyway.

Take what you like, the halfbreed panted, gesturing with an exhausted tilt of his head toward the more dilapidated sections of stone. I suppose the rains must flood this place when the downpour is heavy. Fortunately for us, that means there are many options.

He looked over the glittering walls with a look of pure wonder - he had never had the luxury of viewing such things. But staring would do him no good. Approaching the section the man had gestured to he began picking out the pieces that he thought looked particularly nice.

"So, what is it you wan' in return for all this?" He asked, though he did not turn from his task. "I don' stay still for all that long, so I ain't carryin' nothin' with me."

He would return at a later time, if necessary. Beau preferred not to owe any favours, they often ended up being a pain. Something that anchored him in place whether he like it or not.

The dog rolled onto his back with a weary sigh, abandoning any pretense of aristocracy as he let his head rest on the ground. He folded his forepaws together, contemplation flickering in his pale gaze.

Ah, he mused, voice slipping into a soft, lingering cadence, that is a good question, isn’t it? Let me think… He lifted his paws close to his muzzle, squinting thoughtfully at the ceiling as if the answer might be written in the shadows above. After a long, silent moment, a glimmer of something—revelation, or perhaps bloodlust—sparked in the shattered-glass eyes.

Would you, he began, consider staying still long enough to collect something on my behalf? Berries, perhaps? I believe the ones I’m after can be found near the grove where I first stumbled upon you.

His gaze drifted to his hind leg, which he extended delicately, showing off the collection of scabbed-over teeth marks oh so graciously gifted to him by the storm man. Of course, I would fetch them myself, but as you can see, I’m somewhat… indisposed. Such tasks are a bit beyond me at the moment.

Giggled, I love the little doodle

Berries. He could handle that. "Really? You need me to feed em' to ya' too princess?" He raised an eyebrow - easy job or not he still had to get his jab in. After all, what kind of wolf asks for berries? He followed it up with a snicker. Clearly he found himself rather funny.

"What do these berries look like?" That, of course, was the most important factor. Beau wasn't much of a forager, so it was likely something he would be unfamiliar with.

He had never heard of a wolf who wanted berries - that alone he thought to be odd. But the pretty boy had a regal air about him - maybe he just came from a world Beau did not understand.

hehe <3

A low chuckle escaped him, rough and edged with pain, as he let his leg drop back to the ground, a grimace flashing across his face. No, not these, he muttered, tone dry but amused.

Bright red, almost glowing, he continued, voice dropping conspiratorially. They grow on bushes with leaves like needles—almost like pine, but the color’s wrong, a bit too bright. There’s a small hole in each berry where you can see the seed tucked inside. You'll know them if you see them.

The dog's eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted down to Beau’s paws. Just take a branch, if you can manage it. He shifted, sitting up with a grunt, dove forepaw searching around for a strip of hide beside him. He held it out to Beau, his eyes sharp and serious beneath the faint humor that still lingered. I suggest you don't touch them.

He felt a flash of pride at the slightest hint of amusement - a much needed ego boost.

Bright red, glowing, pine needles, seeds. He could remember all that - or at least he would try. But what sort of berries could you not touch? Maybe pretty boy such didn't want Beau to dirty them, but hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings by saying it directly. Yes, that made sense.

"Alright, I'll do my best." He grunted, taking the hide in his teeth.

He paused only momentarily to look at the other before departing.

We can create a new thread to represent the skip in time or continue here, completely up to you!

I'm good to continue here!

One last thing, the dog called, his voice echoing softly down the stone corridor. Don’t eat them.

A dry smile played on the dog’s muzzle, his shattered-glass eyes glinting in the dim light as he watched the man, the ghost of something unspoken lingering in his gaze. Slowly, he lifted his forepaws to his muzzle once again. His gaze drifted upwards, settling on the cracked, ancient ceiling above, as if tracing patterns only he could see. He would wait there for Beau's return.

Beau chose not to question - after all he had no intention of eating the berries.

After some time he returned, the branch of the described berries wrapped in the provided hide.

Trotting into the mouth of the cave he placed the berries down, next where pretty boy laid. "These look right?" He asked, nodding to the branch. They hadn't been too difficult to find, now he could only hope that he had grabbed the right ones.